You’ve lost count of how many bars of soap you’ve gone through.

Cutting soap is your habit.The moment the blade glides through,delicate shavings fall away,as if all your worries are crumbling along with them.Sitting on the couch,you gaze at the pile of soap on table—sliced into thin sheets,tiny chunks,and soft curls,a colorful mess of relief.You let out a satisfied sigh.This is what life should be.

Then, the doorbell rings.

Brushing the soap dust off your hands, you get up to answer it.Standing outside is Soap with his usual confident grin,blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Bonnie,” he leans against the doorframe, voice lazy like a big dog basking in the sun. “Was just passin’ by—thought I’d see if ya fancy goin’ out for a bit.”

You’re about to agree when he steps inside without hesitation,carrying that smug little smirk like he’s already won something.He has inexplicable confidence,convinced that you are getting softer toward him lately,that his chances are looking pretty damn good.

Then, he turns his head—and sees the scene on your coffee table.

A bright, multicolored… battlefield of soap shavings.

Soap freezes.

He stands there,unmoving,staring at the pile of shredded soap.His smile falters for the briefest moment,like his brain just short-circuited.

Massive emotional damage.

Soap. Soap.

His callsign.

A strange, unsettling thought crashes into his mind, so ridiculous he doesn’t even want to entertain it—

You smile at him every day, always warm, always gentle. But have you just been holding back?

Could it be that, deep down, you actually… hate him?

Is that why you’ve been doing this—why you can only vent your frustrations by taking a real bar of soap and slicing it apart, piece by piece, grinding it into dust?

Are you even the type to hate people? Probably not… but if it’s not hate, then what the hell is he supposed to think right now?

Oh, shit.

For the first time in his life, Soap suddenly feels… insecure about his chances.